


Imaginary Realism?

by sihaya13



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: HPFT, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 03:36:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7297888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sihaya13/pseuds/sihaya13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But then, what is reality?</p><p>A question Luna asks as she wanders through her day, contemplating the complexities and constraints of reality and the boundless wonders of imagination, as she struggles with life following the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imaginary Realism?

In the darkness the sun splintered and shone in such a way that its light was invisible to the naked eye. The eye could not see through the darkness to the light, just as the light could not see through the darkness to the eye. They were protected from one another, unable to harm or help. There were no hugs for the wicked.

The babbling brook babbled its way over rocks and through valleys, twisting and turn. Her feet hit the ground with a smack, and a slight sucking as the slightly muddy surface released her calloused toes from its grasp, only to reacquaint with them again mere milliseconds later.

It was no longer raining, although it had been earlier. A light constant drizzle had graced the skies for several days, leaving behind and almost permanent layer of puddle across the ground, sinking and becoming one with the earth to such an extent that the earth could take no more into its being.

She had been laughed at, and pointed at, and so she had taken to the forest. For many it was dark and foreboding, with twisting trees and shadows and the howls of werewolves both real and feared. For her, it was a comforting place, of drizzle and brooks and unicorns and thestrals, creatures and landscapes who would comfort her and help her in her times of need.

She waded, now, through the brook. Or perhaps waded is too strong a word, for the water was very shallow, but then again, her legs mid-way up her calves were wading, and they need not even have the help of a half-hearted doggy paddle from the arms. It was a little chilly, but not too cold. Though it had been drizzling earlier, it had been a summer drizzle, and the water was still a little warm from the sun which had earlier mingled with the raindrops and danced with the currents.

She came to a rock, on which she sat. Her feet still tickled the water, her toes dancing bemusedly beneath its surface. Out here, in this place, she was free from the immediate fear of torment, free for her soul to sing and her toes to dance and her heart to beat in a non-erratic fashion. Although, it was still a little erratic from the running and the wading it had just previously endured.

No-shoes, they called her. Well, her shoes had been stolen many times, and she rather enjoyed the feel of her feet against the many surfaces of the world, the stone of the castle, the puddle after drizzle, the dry crispy earth after sunshine, the wooden floors of the classrooms, the bottom of a streambed. It was a new way to take in the world, almost like a new sense. She could learn more of the world, and experience more of the world, simply by leaving behind the constricting feet garments that everyone seemed to insist on removing from her in any case. Why not embrace it? 

She had been a hero of the war, and yet all that was soon forgotten as memories of the war receded, and school was restarted, and she became, once more, merely a student among many other students, perhaps a little bit more outwardly odd than many others, but internally not all that much more unusual than any other. After all, is it more odd to believe in that which others do not believe, or to accept the constraints of reality? Which gives more enjoyment?

Surely, her imagination had saved her from many things. As her body had been carved up for the amusement of a deranged witch, her mind had remained safe, caged in the infinite world of her imagination. Instead of screaming, she would laugh, as she overheard an amusing comment from a pixie, or watched a young thestral’s attempt to walk on its spindly, seemingly disproportionate legs, doing a little snort of discontent each time it tumbled to the ground, much to the amusement of its mother.  
Though she had friends now, who could also save her in different ways to her own mind, sometimes her own company was still the most pleasant. It was the most relied upon, and it didn’t feel the need to chatter to itself. And sometimes, that was all that was needed. A romping adventure through the forest, sometimes with the finishing touches of imagination, other times a little more grounded in reality. But then, what is reality? There are certain constraints that apply to all. Gravity, for example. But others? Most constraints are impositions of the mind, each of which is different for all the inhabitants of the world. Each person’s reality is a unique reality, and not necessarily that real at all.

She began the return to the castle, for she had class in approximately one hour, and she imagined that she would need to rinse some of the mud from her person before she would be permitted within a classroom. She furnished the return journey with little bits and pieces of imagination, melding them with actuality to paint a picture of her own reality. Did she pat a unicorn foal with a tactile firmness, or a thoughtful caress? Did it even matter? She did not suppose so, though she did suppose that others may disagree with her.

By the time she reached the castle doors, the sun was shining once again, the light reaching her and enveloping her in its warmth. There were no hugs for the wicked, but for girls with an open heart and entirely too much mud plastering them from the tips of their toes to the roots of their hair? The hugs were never-ending.


End file.
